


Needy

by wave_of_sorrow



Category: U2
Genre: Character Study, Hand Jobs, M/M, PWP
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-28
Updated: 2012-12-28
Packaged: 2017-11-22 19:24:30
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,313
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/613384
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wave_of_sorrow/pseuds/wave_of_sorrow
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which Edge reflects on Bono's need for things and sex is had (well, Bono's jerked off) backstage post-concert.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Needy

**Author's Note:**

> This was written well over two years ago and somehow never made its way over here from livejournal. I'm putting it up now in an effort to keep all my (finished, at least) fic archived in one place.

If I had to choose one word to describe you it would be “needy”.

Not because it’s the first thing that comes to my mind when I think of you or even because it’s the best choice, no, there’s probably a hundred words that would be more fitting - fierce, hopeful, brave, lost, enthusiastic, passionate, shameless, vulnerable, sexual - but because your need is ever present. Your need for attention, love, approval - it’s what drives you forward.

Being on tour, having tens of thousands shout their love for you, whipping crowds into a frenzy until they become a surging sea of sweaty, bouncing bodies, wild and out of control - we all love it, but you, you need it.

Every night you put yourself out there and you not only sing your heart out; you tear your chest right open and rip it out and put it into the greedy hands of your fans. For a few hours every night it’s theirs. Theirs to keep safe, theirs to lift up. I’m not sure they know. Sometimes I don’t think even you are aware of just how much you give them.

But then you go down on your knees and beg them to respond, to give you something, anything and when they scream your own lyrics back at you, the air charged with this uncontainable energy and something very much like joy, I think that’s the only time you truly feel loved.

And then there are times when you’ll stand on the catwalk all by yourself and you’ll turn to me or Adam or even look to Larry as if searching for a rhythm, a body, something to hold on to. You always look so awfully small then. Small and lost and so very young.

Afterwards, when the show is over, you’re still bouncing, babbling, buzzing with the remnants of the night’s electricity and I can feel it coursing through your veins, making your whole body thrum as you cling to me. You need to be touched, then. You need to be held and kissed and allowed to run your hands over skin.

I don’t know how many times you’ve done this already; pushed me into dark, nondescript rooms at venues all over the world, shaking and breathing heavily, your pupils blown and muscles coiled tight. Your skin is uncomfortably hot where it touches mine; even the tip of your nose leaves a trail of tingling heat where you run it along my jaw.

Your lips move against the skin beneath my ear, mumbling incoherently, moaning words that don’t exist as you rub yourself against my hip. I cradle the back of your head with one hand, scratching gently and coaxing growling purrs from you, as I hitch your leg up with the other. You keen sharply when hipbone and zipper dig into your cock and you thrust against me harder, faster.

Beads of sweat roll down your temples and your breath comes in harsh pants and high moans, hitching when I run my hand over skin-warm leather from arse to knee and back again. Your teeth are bared, pressed against the side of my neck as you grind and rock and shift and try to find an angle that will do it for you.

I nip at your earlobe, earring clicking against my teeth, your voice rises with every ‘ah’ and your thrusts turn positively frantic. Your fingers are digging into my hips and I know you’re close - close, but not actually getting there.

A frustrated growl is ripped from your throat and you shudder and shake, desperately grinding against me until I still you with a hand on your hip. You make tiny, unhappy noises and hump the air in frustration as I put a few inches of space between your hips and mine. I coax you to lift your head and kiss your burning mouth, your tongue tangling with mine almost immediately.

I tilt your head back to lick the sweat off your neck; you taste a lot like salt and sex and a little like soap and cologne. Your face is flushed and your eyes wide and unfocused, tears slipping from the corners unchecked. You’re breathing too fast and too hard and I kiss your bobbing Adam’s apple, press my lips against a jugular vein to feel your hammering pulse.

You look like you’re about to start hyperventilating and I’m not sure it’s a good idea, but I cup you through your trousers anyway, pressing the heel of my hand against your erection. For a moment you go completely still in my arms, breath quickening impossibly and I’m positive you must be getting far too little oxygen, but maybe that only turns you on more. And then you’re grinding into my hand in earnest, making these delicious little sounds as you’re trying to come and failing miserably.

Unfastening your trousers is almost impossible with your hips bucking at the slightest touch, but we manage it somehow and the almost feline yowl you give as I take you in hand makes my own cock jerk almost painfully. I gently pull the foreskin back and squeeze the dark head of your cock between my thumb and forefinger, forcing a steady flow of pre-come to ooze from the slit. You hiss and keen and claw at my shoulders and back, managing to break my skin even through my shirt.

This is no time for finesse and so I jerk you hard and fast, forcing your trousers far enough down your thighs to squeeze and fondle your balls. You spread your legs as best you can, the leather crunching in protest, and throw your head back in a wordless scream when I rub my fingers against the hot, damp skin of your perineum.

You start moaning in that high, frantic way that always means you’re almost there and so I redouble my efforts and with a twist and a _pull_ you’re coming; hips snapping and cock jerking in my grip, the chords in your neck standing out and your voice ricocheting off the concrete walls.

You collapse into my arms in a hot, sticky heap and I can barely persuade you to let go of me long enough to clean us up. Your body is still buzzing with energy and you still want me to hold you, but that’s simply because you like to be touched after you’ve come. You still need and crave, but not as desperately or as fiercely as before.

You hum a tune I don’t recognise against my throat and lazily squeeze me through my trousers. I moan appreciatively, but pull your hand away and kiss the salty palm before nudging you towards the door. I know if I don’t get you into the car within the next three minutes you’ll be taking a nap no matter where we’re standing.

You’re plastered against my side as we shuffle outside, a bit because your limbs are feeling sluggish and your legs won’t quite cooperate, but mostly because you want me to touch you. You fold over and place your head in my lap before I’m even properly inside the car.

You wriggle a bit to kick off your shoes and rub your cheek against my diminishing erection, a lazy grin spreading across your features. A bit of shifting and turning and you’re left lying half on your stomach with your face pressed into my belly. A few seconds of silence as the car lurches forward, then a bit more shifting. And more shifting. And some more shifting.

You huff and push my hand under your shirt, wriggling in a bossy kind of way that makes me smile as I start rubbing your back. Every now and then I’ll stop or my rhythm will falter and it won’t take you two seconds to start frowning and shifting, making sure I don’t forget you’re there.

Needy.


End file.
